by Amanda Quick
“We know nothing about Tobias March.” Lavinia flattened her palms on the table and shoved herself to her feet. “Who can guess what he would do if he managed to gain possession of the diary?”
Emeline said nothing.
Lavinia clasped her hands behind her back and began to pace around the table.
Emeline sighed. “Very well, I cannot give you any reason to trust Mr. March, beyond the fact that he did see to it that we got safely back to England after the disaster in Rome. It must have cost him a small fortune.”
“He wanted us out of the way. In any event, I very much doubt March paid the expenses of that journey. I’m sure he sent the bill to his client.”
“Perhaps, but my point is that you have no choice in this affair. Surely it is better to work with him than to ignore him. At least that way you will be in a position to learn whatever he discovers.”
“And vice versa.”
Emeline’s expression tightened. An uncharacteristic anxiety flickered in her gaze. “Have you got a more cunning plan?”
“I don’t know yet.” Lavinia came to a halt and reached into the pocket of her gown. She removed the piece of paper that had fallen out of The Education of a Lady. She examined the address written on it. “But I intend to find out.”
“What have you got?”
“One small clue, which may well lead nowhere.” She put the address back into her pocket. “But if that proves to be the case, I can always consider the merits of a partnership with Tobias March.”
“She found something important in that bedchamber.” Tobias shoved himself up out of the chair and walked around to the front of the wide desk. He leaned back, bracing his hands on either side. “I know she did. I sensed it at the time. Something in the extremely innocent look in her eyes, I believe. Quite an unnatural expression for the woman.”
His brother-in-law, Anthony Sinclair, looked up from the depths of a large tome dealing with the subject of Egyptian antiquities. He lounged in his chair with the negligent ease that only a healthy young man of twenty-one can achieve.
Anthony had moved into his own lodgings last year. For a time, Tobias had wondered if the house would seem lonely. After all, Anthony had come to live with him while still a child when his sister, Ann, had married Tobias. After Ann died, Tobias had done his best to finish raising the boy. He had gotten accustomed to having him underfoot, he thought. The house would seem odd without him.
But within a fortnight of setting up in his own lodgings a few blocks away, it had become clear that Anthony still considered this house an extension of his own rooms. He certainly seemed to be around a lot at mealtime.
“Unnatural?” Anthony repeated neutrally.
“Lavinia Lake is anything but innocent.”
“Well, you did say that she was a widow.”
“One can only wonder about the fate of her husband,” Tobias said with some feeling. “I wouldn’t be surprised to learn he spent his last days chained to a cot in a private asylum.”
“You have mentioned your suspicions about Mrs. Lake at least a hundred times this morning,” Anthony said mildly. “If you are so certain she found a clue last night, why did you not confront her?”
“Because she would have denied it, of course. The lady has no intention of cooperating with me in this matter. Short of upending her and giving her a shake or two to empty out her pockets and reticule, there was no way to prove she had discovered some clue.”
Anthony said nothing. He just sat there gazing at Tobias with an expression of grave inquiry.
Tobias tightened his jaw. “Don’t say it.”
“I fear I cannot help myself. Why did you not upend the lady and shake out whatever it was you thought she had found?”
“Bloody hell, you make it sound as if turning respectable females upside down is in keeping with my normal mode of behavior toward the opposite sex.”
Anthony raised his brows. “I have pointed out on more than one occasion that your manners where women are concerned could do with some refinement. Nevertheless, they generally fall within the boundaries expected of a gentleman. With the exception of Mrs. Lake. Whenever her name is mentioned, it never fails but that you sink into a fit of extreme rudeness.”
“Mrs. Lake is a most exceptional creature,” Tobias said. “Exceptionally strong-minded, exceptionally stubborn, and exceptionally difficult. She would give any sane man fits.”
Anthony nodded with an air of sympathetic understanding. “It is always so damnably irritating to see one’s most pronounced traits mirrored so clearly in another, is it not? Especially when that other person is a member of the fair sex.”
“I warn you, I am in no mood to serve as a source of amusement for you this morning, Anthony.”
Anthony closed the large book he had been reading with a soft snap. “You have been obsessed by the lady since the incidents in Rome three months ago.”
“ ‘Obsessed’ is a gross overstatement of the situation and well you know it.”
“I don’t think so. Whitby gave me a full account of your ramblings and ravings during that period when he tended to the fever caused by your wound. He said you conducted several lengthy, one-sided, mostly incoherent conversations with Mrs. Lake. Since your return to England, you have found a reason to mention her name at least once a day. I would say that borders on obsessed.”
“I was obliged to spend nearly a month trailing around behind the wretched woman in Rome, watching her every move.” Tobias gripped the carved edge of his desk. “You try following a female around for such an extended period, keeping track of every person she greets on the street, every shopping expedition. And all the while wondering if she consorts with cutthroats or if she herself is in danger of having her throat slit. I assure you, that sort of thing takes its toll on a man.”
“As I said, you developed an obsession.”
“ ‘Obsession’ is far too strong a term.” Tobias absently rubbed his left thigh. “She leaves an indelible impression, however, I’ll grant you that much.”
“Evidently.” Anthony propped his right ankle on his left knee and carefully adjusted the pleats of his stylish trousers. “Is your leg aching badly today?”
“It’s raining outside, in case you haven’t noticed. It is always more uncomfortable when the weather turns damp.”
“There is no need to snap at me, Tobias.” Anthony grinned. “Save your temper for the lady who inspires it. If the two of you do form a partnership to find the diary, I expect you will have ample occasion to vent your ill humors on her.”
“The very thought of a partnership with Mrs. Lake is enough to send chills down a man’s spine.” He paused at the sound of a brisk knock on the door of the study. “Yes, Whitby, what is it?”
The door opened to reveal the short, dapper figure of the man who served as his faithful butler, cook, housekeeper, and, when necessary, doctor. In spite of the occasionally precarious state of the household’s income, Whitby always managed to appear elegant. Between Whitby and Anthony, Tobias usually felt at a grave disadvantage when it came to matters of masculine fashion and style.
“Lord Neville is here to see you, sir,” Whitby said in the ominously weighted tones he employed whenever called upon to announce persons of high rank.
Tobias knew that Whitby did not actually consider such beings to be superior by virtue of their social status; rather, he reveled in the opportunity to indulge his personal flair for melodrama. Whitby had missed his calling when he had failed to become an actor.
“Send him in, Whitby.”
Whitby vanished from the doorway.
Anthony uncoiled slowly from his chair and got to his feet.
“Bloody hell,” Tobias said very softly. “I dislike having to deliver bad news to clients. It never fails to annoy them. One never knows when they will decide to stop paying one’s fee.”
“It is not as though Neville has a great deal of choice,” Anthony said just as quietly. “There is no one else to whom he can t
urn.”
A tall, heavily built man in his late forties strode into the room, not bothering to conceal his impatience. Neville’s wealth and aristocratic lineage were evident in everything about him, from his hawklike features and the way he carried himself to his expensively cut coat and gleaming boots.
“Good day to you, sir. I did not expect you so early.” Tobias straightened and waved a hand in the general direction of a chair. “Please, sit down.”
Neville did not respond to the formalities. He searched Tobias’s face, his eyes narrowed and intent. “Well, March? I got your message. What the devil happened last night? Any trace of the diary?”
“Unfortunately, it was gone by the time I arrived,” Tobias said.
The tight twist of Neville’s lips made his disgruntled reaction to the news blazingly clear.
“Damnation.” He stripped off a glove. The black stone in the heavy gold ring on his right hand glittered when he shoved his fingers through his hair. “I had hoped to have this matter resolved quickly.”
“I did turn up some useful clues,” Tobias continued, striving to project an image of professional expertise and confidence. “I expect to locate it in the near future.”
“You must find it as soon as possible. So much hangs upon this matter.”
“I am aware of that.”
“Yes, of course you are.” Neville went to the brandy table and seized the decanter. “Forgive me. I am well aware that we have a mutual interest in finding the bloody diary.” He paused with the bottle in midair and glanced at Tobias. “D’you mind?”
“Of course not. Be my guest.” Tobias tried not to wince at the sight of the large quantity of brandy that Neville poured into a glass. The stuff was expensive. But it generally paid to be gracious to the client.
Neville took two quick swallows and put down the glass. He studied Tobias with a grim expression. “You must find it, March. If it falls into the wrong hands, we may never know who Azure really was. Worse yet, we will not learn the name of the single surviving member of the Blue Chamber.”
“Another fortnight at most and you will have the diary, sir,” Tobias said.
“Another fortnight?” Neville stared at him with an appalled expression. “Impossible. That is too long to wait.”
“I will do my best to uncover it as soon as possible. That is all I can promise.”
“Damnation. Every day that passes is another day in which the diary may be lost or destroyed.”
Anthony stirred and politely cleared his throat. “I would remind you, sir, that it is only because of Tobias’s efforts that you are even aware the diary exists in the first place and is somewhere here in London. That is a good deal more information than you had last month at this time.”
“Yes, yes, of course.” Neville prowled the room with long, restless strides and massaged his temples. “You must forgive me. I have not slept well since learning of the diary’s existence. When I think of those who died during the war because of the actions of those criminals, I can scarcely control my rage.”
“No one wants to find the damned thing more than I do,” Tobias said.
“But what if whoever has it destroys it before we can get hold of it? Those two names will be lost to us.”
“I doubt very much that whoever has possession of the diary will consign it to the fire,” Tobias said.
Neville stopped rubbing his temples and frowned. “What makes you so certain it will not be destroyed?”
“The only person who might conceivably want it destroyed is the one surviving member of the Blue Chamber, and it is highly unlikely that he has got hold of it. To anyone else, it is worth a great deal of money as a source of blackmail. Why burn potential profits?”
Neville thought about that. “Your logic seems solid,” he finally admitted, somewhat grudgingly.
“Give me a little more time,” Tobias said. “I will find that diary for you. Perhaps then we shall both sleep better at night.”
four
The artist always worked near the hearth. The warmth of the flames together with a pan of hot water and the natural heat of the human hand softened the wax so it could be sculpted and shaped.
Most of the initial modeling was done with thumb and forefinger. It required a strong, sure hand to mold the thick, pliant wax. In the initial stages of creation, the artist often worked with eyes closed, relying on a keen sense of touch to form the image. Later a small, sharp, heated tool would be used to add the all-important fine details that breathed vigor and energy and truth into the waxwork.
In the artist’s opinion, the ultimate effect of the finished piece always hinged on the smallest details: the curve of the jaw, the details of the gown, the expression of the features.
Although the viewer’s eye rarely focused on such tiny elements, those bits and pieces of reality were the very factors responsible for eliciting the thrilling shock of comprehension that was the mark of all great art.
Under the artist’s hands, the warm wax seemed to pulse as though blood ran beneath the smooth surface. There was no material so perfect for capturing an imitation of life. None so ideal for preserving the instant of death.
five
Lavinia paused beneath the leafy branches of a tree to check the address on the small slip of paper. Number Fourteen, Hazelton Square, was in the middle of a row of very fine town houses that fronted one side of the lush green park. Elegant colonnades and new gas streetlamps marked the entrance of each residence.
A sense of unease trickled through her as she took in the sight of the two gleaming carriages waiting in the street. They were horsed with glossy, well-matched teams. The grooms who held the reins were attired in expensive livery. As she watched, a lady emerged from Number Sixteen and came down the steps. Her pale pink walking dress with its matching pelisse had obviously come from a modiste who catered to a wealthy, stylish clientele.
This was not quite the sort of neighborhood she had expected to find herself in when she had set out this morning, Lavinia reflected. It was difficult to believe that Holton Felix had been acquainted with, let alone had actually tried to blackmail, a person who lived at such a fashionable address.
She studied the colonnaded residences warily. It would not be easy to talk her way into the front hall of one of these houses. Nevertheless, she could not see any other choice but to make the attempt. The address she held in her hand was the only clue she possessed at the moment. She had to start somewhere.
Steeling herself for the task, she crossed the street and went up the white marble steps of Number Fourteen. She raised the heavy brass knocker and rapped it with what she hoped was an authoritative strike.
Muffled footsteps sounded from the hall. A moment later the door opened. An imperious-looking butler built along the lines of a large bull gazed down at her. She could see by the expression in his eyes that he was already planning to close the door in her face. Hastily she extended one of the crisp, new cards she had ordered from a printer last month.
“Kindly present this to your employer,” she said briskly. “It is most urgent. My name is Lavinia Lake.”
The butler glanced disdainfully at the note. He clearly harbored grave doubts about the wisdom of accepting it.
“I believe you will find that I am expected,” Lavinia said in her iciest tones. It was a bald-faced lie, but it was all she could think of at the moment.
“Very well, madam.” He stood back to allow her into the hall. “You may wait here.”
She drew a deep breath and stepped hastily over the threshold. She had jumped the first hurdle, she thought. She was inside.
The butler disappeared down a shadowy hall. Lavinia took the opportunity to assess her surroundings. The black and white tiles beneath her feet, together with the elaborately framed and gilded mirrors on the walls, spoke of fashionable taste and a great deal of money.
She heard the footsteps of the returning butler and held her breath. When he appeared, she knew immediately that her card had worked.
“Mrs. Dove will see you. This way, if you please, madam.”
She started to breathe again. So much for the easy part. Now she faced the infinitely more delicate task of persuading a stranger to talk to her about blackmail and murder.
She was shown into a large drawing room done in shades of yellow, green, and gilt. The furnishings were covered in striped silks. Heavy green velvet drapes tied back with yellow cords framed the view of the park. Her footsteps were hushed by a thick carpet woven in the same hues.
A strikingly elegant woman occupied one of the gilded sofas. She was dressed in an exquisitely stylish gown cut from the palest of silver-gray silk trimmed with black. Her hair was caught up at the back of her head in a graceful style that subtly emphasized the graceful length of her neck. From a distance she could have been easily mistaken for a woman in her early thirties. But as Lavinia drew closer she noticed the fine lines at the corners of the intelligent eyes and an unmistakable softness around a throat and jaw that had once no doubt been quite firm. There was a fair amount of silver in the honey-colored hair. The lady was closer to forty-five than thirty-five.
“Mrs. Lake, madam.” The butler bowed curtly.
“Do come in, Mrs. Lake. Pray be seated.”
The words were spoken in a cool, refined voice, but Lavinia could hear the tension in them. This woman had been living under a great deal of strain.
Lavinia sat down in one of the striped gilded armchairs and tried to look as if she were accustomed to holding conversations in the midst of such fine furnishings. She was very much afraid that her plain muslin gown, once a vivid, reddish brown but now closer to the shade of weak tea, betrayed her. The recent attempt to dye the fabric back to its original hue had not been entirely successful.
“Thank you for seeing me, Mrs. Dove,” Lavinia said.
“How could I refuse after you presented such an intriguing card?” Joan Dove raised her elegantly arched brows. “May I ask how it is that you are acquainted with my name when I am well aware we have never met?”
“There is no great secret to that. I simply asked one of the nannies in the park. I was informed that you are a widow who lives here with your daughter.”